Neverwinter Shorts
by Voracious
Summary: Because games don't have to be serious. Slay that dragon! Con that maiden! Steal that reward!
1. All You Need Is Love

Tomi slipped an arm around her and beamed into her face, taking measure of the fine swell of her hips -- not to mention the swell of her purse against his side -- and took in the countryside with a sweep of his arm. "Y'see that?" he enthused. "All that'n more's waitin' for us, love. We'll kip under the stars, keep each other warm, like, an' the next day we'll be off fer somewhere new. Nothin' can hold us back!"

"Oh, Tomi," she breathed, sea-green gaze alight with the possibilities as she looked breathlessly into his own whiskey brown eyes, "do you really mean it? Is there truly a place for me out there, beyond waiting tables at the tavern for coppers? Derring-do and adventure for the likes of me?"

"'Course there is," he insisted, "yer a special one, ye are. Knew it from the moment I set eyes on ye."

She all but swelled with excitement, clasping her small hands together in delight. "This is all happening . . . so fast! Tomi . . . Tomi, this last week with you has been wonderful!"

"Aye, it has, hasn't it?" remarked the halfling with a self-satisfied grin. "An' there's more comin'. Ye'l see, love. With yer pocketbook, we've got only th' heavens ta hold us back . . . an' even then," he added grandly, "why stop there?"

She let out a girlish squeal of excitement and hugged him impulsively.

"Yep," Tomi said with satisfaction, patting her head with one hand, and bouncing her coin purse subtly with the other, "things're lookin' up fer us, Laura."

Abruptly, she pulled back, a strange expression knitting her face.

"Er . . . somethin' the matter, love?"

". . . My name's not Laura . . . " she said slowly, brow furrowing.

Tomi froze. After a moment's hesitation, however, his smile was back in full force, if a bit wilted around the edges. "Well . . . well o'course it ain't! I were just teasin' ye . . . Sarah?" he said hopefully.


	2. Unforgettable Or Not

"Thought you'd get away with it, did you?"

The gnome tried to sink down deeper into the chair, but found that doing so put him on a level where his eyes couldn't see over the scarred tabletop. "No," he replied meekly, "which is to say, er, I really wasn't trying to get away with anything, my good man. I live there, you see -- with my friends -- and I simply forgot my keys. Happens all the time, I'm always losing things, you know . . . "

Across from Boddyknock, the larger of the two guards lifted his eyebrows meaningfully at his companion. "Babbling, Sergeant Jacobson. Do you think it could be a sign of a guilty conscience?"

"He says he lives there," replied the other, stressing the word 'says' just enough.

"Now, really," Boddyknock protested, "I do live there!"

Jacobson frowned, scratching a gauntleted hand through his unkempt dark beard. "The companions to the Hero of Neverwinter live there. Lord Nasher himself offered them the use of it whenever they were in the city, for their troubles." The sergeant's eyes misted over slightly; it was clear to him that risking one's neck for one's city was the height of mortal moral fiber.

"But I was one of the companions!" Boddyknock raised a fist to thump on the table for emphasis, then thought better of it. "At . . . at least, for a little while!"

"We asked around about that," the larger man replied, "nobody knows you."

"Well, he might have slipped by their notice, Briar . . . " Jacobson interrupted. "He is a wee bit . . . ah . . . wee."

Not certain wether to be angry or alarmed, and trying not to fidget too much, Boddyknock sighed heavily. "This is all some horrible mistake, I assure you!"

"Rather convenient that he chose a time when they were all out of the city to 'lose his keys' though, inn't?" Jacobson said. He removed a piece of paper from inside his breastplate and held it up so they could all see it; 'Gone Horde Huntin' it said, and the smiley face at the bottom indicated it had likely been penned by Linu . . . and the horns and tail that it had later been added to by Tomi. "Guess he was hoping to evade notice again when he was breaking in."

"I was most certainly not breaking in!" the gnome said, anger finally winning out temporarily. "As I told you before, I lost my keys! I was preforming a simple Knock spell to rectify the situation without causing a ruckus!"

"The back door was left open." interrupted Jacobson again, shifting so that the torchlight lay more fully on Boddyknock's face. "Looks like willfull destruction of property to me."

"The . . . the backdoor was open?" Boddyknock wilted visibly. "Oh . . . oh my, how dreadful. Why, any vagrant could have wandered in off the street, couldn't they?"

The two men exchanged a glance.

Sometime later, sitting on the edge of his cot in the cell, Boddyknock tried to puzzle out why the others had left him behind. He was willing to admit, he was small enough to escape notice, and, unlike Tomi, lacked the lung capacity (not to mention crude bodily functions) to make up for it. But surely he was a valued member of the team? Surely they wouldn't have forgotten him so easily, after all they'd been through together . . . ?

Sighing, he reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a small deck of cards. Ah well; they weren't likely to get far before they remembered him. And of course he'd forgive them; he was a forgiving sort, after all.

Surely, they'd be back any minute now.

Wouldn't they?


	3. HandHeld Barbarian

Author's Note: Well, it IS the worst pain in the entire world.

----------

The hellhound ate up the distance between them almost instantaneously, and before Phenalope could react, it's enormous front paws thudded heavily onto her chest before she could face it fully, driving her to the ground and forcing the breath from her lungs in one explosive gasp. She slammed one hand up into it's throat as it's jaws darted downwards, seeking the unprotected flesh of her throat. All pretense of style and experience flew from her as she struggled to draw in enough breath to scream, muscles in her arm straining to hold the slavering, snapping fangs at bay. She sunk her dagger deep into it's burning flesh, but the beast only made a horrible, eager, needful sound as it's paws scrabbled at her leathers, bearing down on her even harder.

And then, as soon as the attack had begun, it was over. Phenalope barely saw the large hand shoot over and ball itself into a fist in the hellhound's hide and jerking it upwards. In Daelan's grasp, the beast snarled with a mixture of pain and anger, powerful limbs thrashing as it strained to snap at the barbarian's face. In one fluid motion, he whirled and slammed it into the cavern wall. There was a horrible crunching sound and the hound's snarls rose into watery squeals, suddenly seeking escape. It's legs thrashed in the air as Daelan drew it back again and slammed it forward, this time hard enough to send a spiderweb network of cracks radiating out from it's body. The hellhound's spine snapped with a sound like brittle ice in winter; it shuddered once, violently, and fell still.

Daelan's face appeared above her, bloodied and upsidedown to her eyes. "Are you allright, Phenalope?"

"I frellin' hate wizards." she said in a sulky tone.

Relief crossed his face, and he siezed her hand to pull her to her feet, marking the way she winced and rubbed at her ribs. "Are you quite sure you're allright?"

"Said I was, didn't I?" the rogue grunted. Her fingers fluttered through the tattered remains of the soft, dyed hide that had made up her vest until moments ago. "Bloody summons . . . think they're so frellin' smart an' cunnin', like, don't they?" Abruptly she whirled and aimed a kick at the still form of the hound. "Well who's up for prancin' now, mate?! Where's yer great ruddy teeth now, ye snappin' twat?!?" She drew herself up to her full height and tossed her head, smoothing the dust from her hips with a gesture of exaggerated calm. She finally cast an eye towards Daelan, standing patiently nearby. "And how're yeh then? All right, Daelan?"

Under her gaze, Daelan straightened proudly, unmindful of his wounds. "I am quite fine, Phenalope. Your worry is appreciated, but not needed."

"Oh, yeah?" Stepping over the prone body of a drow assassin, she lofted an eyebrow. "That don't hurt then, do it?" She jabbed a finger at the arrow still quivering in the half-orc's massive bicep.

"Hardly a pin-prick, my lady." he replied with dignity.

Clearly skeptical, Phenalope swept her eyes over him critically, head cocked attentively. The ambush had risen out of the shadows like a great black tide, on them almost before Phenalope's own hand could tighten over the hilt of her dagger. In the brief flashes lit by the Drow spellcasters, she had caughten a brief glimpse of Daelan from time to time, face contorted with conversation as his axe whistled through the air, more often than not with a Drow on his back, blade raised, spitting curses in his ear.

Now, his face was almost recognisable. The short hairs of his beard were knotted and tangled with blood, a great deal of it obviously his own from the innumerable knicks and cuts tattooed across his broad face. Most of the weapons weilded by their assailants had been insufficient to scratch the ancient breastplate Phenalope had reluctantly parted with earlier (mainly to make room in her already heavy pack), but had easily torn through his leathers and left their ghastly signatures on his skin in more than one place. Most of them were shallow -- the barbarian could be surprisingly quick-footed -- but a few were deep enough that they looked like ragged lips in his flesh, parting obscenely when he moved.

Phenalope wrinkled her nose and turned her head aside slightly, choosing instead to stare at a point directly above Daelan's head and to the left, fastening instead on an unidentifiable ichor staining a patch of moss in the walls. "Look, boyo, if this is some machismo thing . . . "

"Please, Phenalope." Daelan raised one hand and smiled gently. "I promise you, if I require assistance, I would seek it. However, our quest is more important than a minor scuffle . . . and I don't doubt we'll see others along the way."

Glad to give up her side of the argument, Phenalope stooped and wrenched the dagger out of the hide of the hound. It's body was already vanishing slowly, the magics that had sustained it gone. "Right," she said briskly, wiping her hand on her thigh with a moue of disgust, "well, if ye aren't goin' to bleed on my boots, let's got on with it, then. I don't wanna be about when this place starts to stink." Without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode briskly away, arms swinging energetically at her sides. If the barbarian wasn't about to lick his wounds, than neither was she. She aimed another kick at the hellhound's fading carcass, tottered as her foot swung through it, regained her balance and continued on faster than before.

Chuckling to himself, Daelan plucked the massive double-ax off of the ground and swung it across his shoulders, striding after her . . .

. . . at least until the tip of his toe collided with the large rock protruding from the stone floor.

Nerves jangling, Phenalope spun around at the heavy thud that followed, turning her explosive sigh of relief into an inquiring noise. Daelan was sitting on the ground, clasping his foot, and sucking his lower lip in and out of his mouth rapidly. "What're ye doin' down there?"

"Fell." Daelan gasped, offering her a quavery smile and rocking slightly.

"Why'd ye fall down?"

"N-No reason."

Phenalope arched an eyebrow.

Daelan's lips remained quivered in a smile, a single tear tracking down his cheek as he gingerly let go of his foot and shot the rock what he hoped was a well-concealed reproachful look.

"Right," said Phenalope, unsettled, "Let's be off, then, shall we?" And she whirled around and set off again.

After a moment, Daelan pushed himself to his feet, uttering a single, stifled, mornful squeak as his foot made contact with the ground. He hobbling as quickly as he could manage after her, sniffling and wiping briskly at his eyes, and taking care to straighten up hastily whenever she showed signs of looking about.

It was hell, being a barbarian.


	4. Everybody Say Heeeey!

Note: I REGRET NOTHING!

----------

The little kobold had been softly plucking at the strings on his lute for some time now, solitary, seemingly pointless notes that rose into the cold air of the Underdark and were instantly swallowed. Striding before him, Dirk Deadly, Sourge of the Darkness and Ripper of a Thousand Bodices, waited to see wether or not the little fellow would offer up a piece of new music. He had been deep in thought for most of the day (or was it night? Hard to tell down here), which was most unlike the creature.

When the silence only spun out longer between them as they marched onward, broken by occasional notes, Dirk finally stopped. Putting on his most sympathetic and beatific expression, something he practised in his polished plate each morning, he went down on one knee solemnly. It was his duty to see to the needs of his henchpersons, especially the emotional ones.

Deekin stopped walking immediately, looking politely confused at the attention. His claws were still poised on the strings. "You wants something from Deekin, Boss?" he inquired, looking as nervous as was possible for his features. To the best of his recollection, the last time his Boss had used that expression on him, (which, in Deekin's silent opinion, looked as though the strips of dried Rothe meat he'd been eating had disagreed with him.) Deekin had been on the receiving end of an hours-long lecture on how to impress a lady that had only ended when the Drow assassin that had been following them for the last several hours had hurled herself at Dirk shrieking with frustration.

"Deekin, old chum," he said now, eyes glinting warmly, "you know you can always come to me for help, my little friend. Are you stuck for a melody? Perhaps I can help. I have listened to over five thousand ballads, you know . . . and seduced women by nearly all of them." he added with what he thought was a roguish grin; in reality, it only served to emphasize the rather large gap between his two front teeth.

"Um . . . " Deekin hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He seemed to be trying to look everywhere at once. "Well, maybe . . . maybe Deekin is tryings to write new song . . . only, um, Deekin is not beings sure if it be romantic enough . . . "

"Haha!" Drik bugled. He clapped the kobold on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward and rose to his feet, grinning. "I knew it! Have your eyes set on some young kobold lass with supple scales and glinting teeth, do you?"

"Er, sorry, Boss, but Deekin not think Kobolds scaleses be very supple . . . and Kobolds teeths not glint very much on accounts of all the yellow . . . "

Dirk rolled over him as though he hadn't spoken; Dirk Deadly was a fine old talker, and frequently went on for hours at a time on any number of matters unless he was distracted by a suitably noble quest, or a suitably straining bodice. "Well, Deekin, old chum, you just let me have it! I'll see to it that we net you the girl of your dreams!"

If it was possible for scales to blush, Deekin's were managing admirably. "Ah . . . well, you sees, it not really be Kobold, Boss . . . Deekin was thinking . . . Deekin was thinking maybe he finds lonely dragoness, for a change. Deekin . . . Deekin wants someone very strong, 'cause Deekin only be real little, and sometimes falls in holes and cant gets out and stuff . . . "

Acting for all the world as though it were commonplace for Kobolds to stroll into dragon dens with poetry and flowers, Dirk propped his hands on his hips and beamed. "Well well! My little friend has high hopes! Why don't you let me hear this song of yours, and I'll tell you how you can improve it."

The little Kobold was silent for a moment. He looked miserably about the area, hoping for a distraction, but the large cavern remained stubbornly devoid of Beholders or Illithids. After a moment, he braced his claws along the appropriate strings, took a deep breath, and began to sing;

"Deekin like big rumps and he do not lie!

The other Kobolds can't deny!

That when a dragon struts into your smelly cave place

And drops a big rump in your face

You get -- squashed!

Got to get some fresh air

Really gotta get outta there!

Oooh rump o' scaled skin

Deekin's scales only be real thin!

Well protect him, protect him,

Things always trying to get him!

Even if you not good at dancin'

Deekin say to heck with romancin'!

Dragon got rump!"

Panting slightly with the effort of the fast-paced beat, Deekin propped his lute momentarily against his toes to flex his claws. He peered up at Dirk with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. "So . . . so what dids you thinks? Deekin think it not be as good as Doom Song, maybe, but he think that not be romantic enough to stop big dragon from eating him."

Dirk was silent for a moment, his face oddly slack. Then, abruptly, he reached out, laid one large hand on Deekin's narrow shoulder, and said in a low voice, "We will never speak of this again." He spun on his heel and set off at a rather brisk pace, nearly stumbling over a patch of small rocks in the cavern floor.

Puzzled, Deekin stared after him for a moment, before shrugging and following along. Not everyone could appreciate romance, he supposed.


	5. Drow Cuisine

"What're ye up to, then?"

Peering over Nathyrra's shoulder, Phenalope watched the drow's slender hands as she worked, holding the vials up to the muted light. They gave off a soft, almost palpable green glow, and a faint odor of burning bread.

Nathyrra spared barely a glance for the other woman, her attention instead focused on tipping a single glimmering droplet of fluid from the larger of the vials into the smaller. A fine wisp of vapour arose almost immediately, but vanished when she pursed her lips and blew on it gently. "I'm making a poison, if you must know." she said finally, now picking up a twisted root from the table top's selection of ingredients.

"Oh, aye?" Phenalope said in interested tones. Her eyes tracked the drow's movements curiously as she leaned on the table, folding her arms across her rumpled leather tunic. "For the purposes of . . . ?"

"Well, I wasn't intending to use it to season my cooking." the drow replied cooly. The root powdered in her hand as she clenched her fist, trickling down into the vial; the liquid immediately turned a somehow sinister milky blue.

"Mmm, I s'pose not." Idly scratching the underside of her chin, Phenalope paused for a moment, then said in cavalier tones, "So I'm wond'rin', then, didn't ye promise me last week that ye were done with any sort of 'evil'-type business that might hamper our grand quest by bringin' the local constabulary down on our heads, love?"

"I did?"

"Mmm. T'was a Tuesday, I b'lieve."

"Ah." Nathyrra hesitated a moment, then swept the entire surface of the table clean with a sweep of her arm, spinning about to block the resulting minor explosion with a brilliant smile. "So!" she declared cheerfully. "I know a certain waela jalil who looks like she would like some elg'cahl cookies!"

"I know what that means, ye ruddy great twat." Phenalope said dryly.

"Nonsense! You're hearing things, my friend." Clapping an arm around the woman's shoulders, Nathyrra pocketed the vial behind her back, deftly stoppering it one-handed. "You'll love them, I promise you. They taste like chicken!"

"Ye don't even know what a chicken is. And ye ain't helpin' yer case."

----------

For non-drow heathens: "I know a certain foolish female who looks like she would like some poison cookies!"


	6. Bargain Shopping

"And," said Xanos, scrutinizing the looming construct carefully, "you say this is pure mithral, yes?" He didn't try to keep the sceptical note out of his voice as he stroked his broad chin thoughtfully.

"Oh, aye, sure is." the halfling behind the counter said enthusiastically. He had to stand on several haphazardly piled spellbooks just to reach the countertop, and the robes he wore looked rather ill-fitting. "Finest mithral ye can make."

The half-orc, who had been lifting up the mammoth hand of the complacent golem to examine the worksmanship, looked up sharply, black brows drawing together. "One does not make mithral." he spat.

"O-of course not!" the halfling said, taking a hasty step backwards and nearly toppling off his stack of books. He ran a hand through his short, ginger hair and offered a wry grin. "'Course not, mate . . . what I meant ta say, is . . . it's th' finest mithral golem ye can buy . . . MADE from mithral, aye."

Xanos frowned, a truly frightening expression to behold. "What did you say your name was?"

"Ah . . . that's right . . . didn't, did I? Heh . . . Tom . . . Tom Underhill, mate." He thrust a hand over the piles of scrolls and spell components scattered on the scarred wooden surface.

Xanos didn't move. If anything, his brows narrowed further. "Xanos has been to this store before, in recent years. I have met the owner before as well, and he was not you."

The halfling -- Tom Underhill by claim -- seemed to wilt slightly. "Oh, aye? . . . yeah, well, see," he said helpfully, absently straightening his too-big robes, "he was gettin' on a bit, then, weren't he? Bit dodgy, really." He twirled a finger discreetly about his temple for emphasis. "So I offered to watch his store for 'im, like. Turn a profit whilst he got a bit of a lie down, yanno?"

Xanos said nothing before returning to study the golem. Mr Underhill began to sweat.

Scrubbing a flat fingernail over the shining surface of the golem, the half-orc frowned thoughtfully. A sliver of silver material flaked off into his palm, revealing a rough-hewn looking dark patch. The halfling had become quite absorbed in making a show of polishing the already gleaming bottles arranged by size on the shelves with the sleeve of his robe.

Abruptly, Xanos straightened.

Mr Underhill gave a small scream and knocked one of the bottles to the floor with a crash.

"Xanos is a worldly traveller," Xanos announced, "and Xanos is wise in the way of magic. Therefore, I can easily recognize quality . . . or lack thereof, especially in magical items." As he spoke, the fleck of silver paint fell from his palm to the floor.

"Oh, uh, aye?" Mr Underhill said faintly.

Xanos was silent a moment, before he finally asked the question that had been bothering him from the moment he'd stepped into the store.

"If Xanos buys one, is there a discount for multiple purchases?"


	7. Adam Miller Tribute

Author's Note: Anyway, as for the actual Short this time around, it probably won't make any sense unless you're familliar with the work of Adam Miller. Which you should be. I mean, really, the hell is wrong with you people? But considering his newest module Demon was just released recently, I thought it might be nice to do something like this, which is completely spoiler free for all of his work, should you be worried. Plus, I've been wanting to write these guys since forever, even if it was tricky. As for the scenario, hell, we've all been there, I'm sure. It's why I'm nearly a multiplayer virgin.

----------

" . . . and all I'm saying," Doyenne said calmly, arms folded, "is you need to look at this from a profitable point of view. People respect power, and power without guidance or aim is evil, and evil for evil's sake is just foolishness. And so, you see," she went on, draping an arm around Nooble's shoulders and turning him gently but firmly towards the dancer in the middle of the room, "taking what you want in this instance is merely asserting your dominance over an otherwise unruly pack. You're simply pruning . . . and obtaining yourself some likeable entertainment in the process."

"I . . . suppose that makes . . . some form of sense." Doubt that was evident when Nooble met her gaze evaporated slightly when he looked at the dancer again. The flickering firelight in the room painted a virbant sheen on her barely-clothed torso as she thrashed, mostly ignored by the chatting nobles. He swallowed visibly and adjusted his belt. "But won't she object?"

"Object?" Letting loose a trilling laugh that caused several people to look around curiously, Doyenne covered her mouth with one hand, heavily jewelled rings winking in the light. "Dear boy, whyever would she object? On some level, we all of us yearn to be shown true power, and to be possessed. I can assure you, even if she did object, a few tears along the way are a small price to pay for one's own great happiness, don't you agree?"

The truth was, on some level, what Doyenne said made perfect sense. What she said was so unlike what he'd been told all his life, yet the kind, encouraging smile she wore was not unlike the one the priest had worn back in Scornubel when explaining a particularily difficult lesson. He smiled slightly and she grinned in return, squeezing his bicep. "There's a good fellow. We've all the time in the world to search Hill's Edge, I'm certain, so why don't you -- "

"Doyenne?"

The smile slipped only an instant before Doyenne managed to hoist it back into place, looking around politely. "Yes? . . . ah. Yes, Anera, dear, what is it?"

Looking more uncomfortable than usual, Anera took three quick steps closer to the two of them from where she'd been standing anxiously nearby. Her usual manner of calm detachment was gone, and colour flared in her cheeks. "I . . . Doyenne, I do appreciate you agreeing to take me along, you know I do."

Doyenne tucked her long hands into the sleeves of her robe. "If you are having second thoughts, I completely -- "

Anera threw up her hands instantly. "No! No, not at all . . . it's just . . . ah . . . " Glancing about uncomfortably, she leaned in closer to Doyenne and spoke in a low undertone. " . . . this . . . fellow you found to be my partner? He, um . . . where did you say you found him?"

"In the local tavern. He seemed quite eager to be of assistance." Doyenne said, exchanging a sly smile with a passing nobleman. "Why do you ask?"

Anera looked surprised. "He . . . he isn't foreign, then?"

"Not to my knowledge. He had the look of a farmboy to pass for a local, in any case." Doyenne raised an eyebrow. "Is something bothering you, Anera?"

"N-ooooo . . . not as such. And, really, Doyenne, I don't mean to be a bother, interrupting you with this." Anera shot a worried glance in Nooble's direction. He seemed to be occupied with something in the center of the room, however, expression distant and thoughtful, arms folded. "But, Doyenne, I'm not sure how exactly you expect us to work together when I . . . well, when I can't understand him! Maybe . . . " she added, suddenly hopeful, "maybe I could partner with Nooble, instead, for this excursion, and you could -- "

"What precisely is it about him that you do not understand, Anera?" Doyenne asked quietly, moving a step closer to Nooble.

Now looking frustrated more than anything else, Anera balled her hands into fists and banged them on her thighs, metal gauntlets ringing against chainmail. "It's just . . . I don't think he's taking this seriously, Doyenne, I truly think he is not! I keep trying to focus our search, but he keeps interrupting my train of thought, asking for my . . . my asl!"

"What is an asl?" Doyenne asked, curious.

"I don't _know_," Anera sighed, "I don't know any of what he's talking about! I also don't know where he managed to find that Astral Blade, nor that Red Dragon Scale Armor! There's naught but a bowyer around here for miles, and the local smithy could hardly create something like that! And he keeps going _on _about Feats and Points, and gods know what else! And, Doyenne . . . _I think he's more interested in trying to touch me inappropriately than he is with finding out who's behind this whole mess!_" she finished, in a scandalised hiss.

"Well, you know, young men these days . . . " Doyenne said, gesturing vaguely. When Anera only continued to scowl, she sighed. "Very well. I shall speak with him, later . . . where _is_ young master Badazz Killermasta, anyway?"

"I don't know," Anera said, uncharacteristically peevish, "but I shall go and look for him, if you really will try to impress upon him the gravity of our situation." She spun on her foot and marched off, arms swinging purposefully.

Doyenne watched her go with a slight grimace. On the floor, the music stopped, and the dancer ceased her undulations briefly, to scattered, absent-minded applause. Apparently having made up his mind, Nooble took a step forward, only to have Doyenne snatch his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. He looked down at her in surprise. "Doyenne, I thought you said--"

"I am in the mood," she said cooly, "for ice cream. I fear my evening is about to become uncomfortably cramped." She steered him firmly towards the door, mouth set in a grim line.

After dragging his feet a few steps and casting wistful looks over his shoulder at the dancer, who had returned to her routine, this time with almost frenetic abandon, he reluctantly allowed himself to be lead out the door into the cool night air. "I don't know why you'd want to bother . . . " After a glance at her face, he added, quickly, "although I suppose it does sound good about now. What flavour did you have in mind?"

"The usuals, preferably. Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, children . . . "

" . . . wait, what was that last one?"

"Vanilla." She smiled beatifically up at him and patted his arm. "Honestly, Nooble, dear, do try to pay attention to things. I have a lot to teach you, after all."


	8. Baby Baby, Let's Make Romance

"I don't believe it," Valen said flatly, without looking around as he strode forward, "you're being ridiculous." 

Unconcernedly plucking a few solitary notes on his lute as he lagged behind, Deekin shrugged. "That be's up to you, Valen. Only, Deekin is not lying. Old Master said to Deekin one day, 'Deekin, you musts never lie to Masters. They turn yous into kobolds pudding'."

"I'm not your master." the tiefling snapped over his shoulder as he yanked the harpy he was dragging forward over a large crop of rocks on the ground. The head thumped back down with a sickening thud, lolling limply about as it was jostled forwards, and it's wings scraped out behind it.

Apparently unperturbed by Valen's burden, the kobold deftly stepped around the dead harpy to walk at a fast clip by the tiefling's side. "Maybe not," Deekin said with a touch of reproach, "but you is not against kobold pudding either, Deekin thinks."

Despite himself, Valen snickered, but refused to budge on the topic of conversation. "Perhaps you aren't lying, then, nor are you quite as stupid as you look. However, that does not rule out the possibility of yourself simply being wrong."

"Could be." Deekin agreed, now doing a sort of skipping two-step to keep up with the larger man. "But Deekin is not beings wrong 'bout this."

Valen grunted by way of reply, lapsing into a pensive silence for several moments as he pondered the possible implications. On the one hand, it was likely to be complete nonsense. Kobolds were not known to be the most intelligent of creatures, and he sincerely doubted the capacity of one who had spent the last several years getting hurled around caverns and bashed in the head by everything from alcoholic hill giants to irritable medusae. On the other hand, however, that would mean that the woman he had found himself eyeing more and more during his travels was . . .

"Allright," he said peevishly, slinging the dead harpy over one shoulder with a scowl as he stomped up the next ridge, "let's pretend, just for a second, mind you, that you're not wrong. How would you come to know this? Surely you haven't . . . ?"

The kobold rolled his eyes comically, actually lolling his head backwards with the movement. "Now who is being ridiculous?" he snorted. "Deekin is not liking humans very much . . . much too soft and pink and not enough scaleses." He paused while an almost imperceptible shudder ran through his companion. "But Deekin just knows. He gots instincts, you know? And Deekin knows you have to trust your instincts. Like, one time, Deekin is having instinct that Old Master gonna roll over in his sleep, and Deekin is not listening to it. Next thing Deekin knows, he being picked out of the scales on Old Master's back!"

"Truly traumatic, I'm sure." Despite his cavalier attitude, Valen wasn't quite sure to be relieved or apprehensive when the glow from the campfire finally came into sight around the corner.

Deekin shrugged and ran a series of quick, melodic notes off his lute before slinging it over his shoulder in an imitation of Valen. "It okays if you nots believes Deekin. He not holds it against you. Why, Deekin heard 'bout one man, he fall in love with carrion crawler! You not be so bad by comparison, Deekin thinking."

"I am not in love with a . . . with anything!" Valen snarled, dropping his voice until it was a nearly inaudible hiss. His face was very pale now, save the twin spots of crimson colour that had risen in his cheeks like flags. "And I don't want to hear another word about this from you, about this or anything else tonight! One more word, and I swear, kobold, they'll still be picking your scales off of the walls by the time Elminster decides to shave that ridiculous beard of his off!"

Deekin regarded him with reproachful eyes, but said nothing as they rounded the corner, striding ahead briskly instead to the warm light of the fire and sitting himself down firmly on an ancient toadstool.

Seated on the other side of the fire, Mistress Raveyn Wyng immediately shot to her feet, a welcoming smile sliding into place of the brooding expression with which she had been studying the fire. "There you are," she said warmly, "I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you." Her dark eyes fell upon the birdlike creature as Valen swung it irritably to the ground at her feet with a grunt. Her ruby red lips twitched with a slight moue of disgust. " . . . and I see you were able to find food for the night as well."

"It was either this or a basket of Ettercap eyes." he snapped, dropping to one knee beside the carcass under the pretense of prodding for the best cuts of meat, but more to avoid her gaze. "I've had Ettercap eyes. They burst unpleasantly on the tongue. I thought we might prefer something slightly less juicy."

Absorbed as he was in his task, he missed the inquiring look Raveyn sent Deekin. Deekin, for his part, also happened to miss it, as he was currently absorbed in wondering wether or not the slimed and cracked stone walls would indeed hold kobold scales for any length of time.

Worried now, Raveyn crouched down next to Valen, the leather of her black skirt flexing tautly over her round buttocks (not that he noticed, of course). "Valen," she said quietly, "is something wrong? Only, you're acting a bit . . . odd."

Before he could stop himself, the tiefling had glanced over and gotten an eyeful of the bosom straining under her leather shirt, and he quickly dropped his gaze back to the ground. The kobold was full of it, obviously. Whatever lies he was spinning about her, Deekin clearly cared a great deal for the attention of his 'Master'; perhaps this newest tale was his way of assuring Valen didn't try to come between them?

However . . .

Valen chanced a glance again, this time at her throat, only to find himself thwarted by the ornately worked, massive silver and ruby collar she wore. Before he could make up his mind, she had reached out with one long-fingered, red nailed hand and tilted his chin up. "Valen," she said, this time with a slow smile, "why don't you tell me what's on your mind? Maybe we could work it out, together."

Even as Valen blanched at the suggestion, his mind raced. In the end, he decided, there was only one way to be certain. "Raveyn," he began after a deep intake of breath, "are you really . . .ah . . . " He caught Deekin's eye. " . . . oh, the Hells with it."

And, bracing himself, he reached out and grabbed her chest.

----------

"Well," Valen snarled, nursing the bruise that was blossoming around his right eye, "I hope you're happy, kobold. I'll have you know that the only thing preventing me from roasting you over that fire on a spit right now is the fact that she was gracious enough to forgive me."

Unconcerned, Deekin tore another strip of wrinkled, roasted harpy meat off of the slender bone he had been gnawing before favouring the tiefling with a broad, toothy grin. "You nots like kobold stew very much, anyway. Too many bits to get stucks in teeth, like popcorn."

Grunting, Valen scowled into the fire momentarily before glancing off in the direction of the small tent that had been erected at the opposite end of the campsite. No shadows moved within. He sighed abruptly, and found himself with a grudging smile on his face. However mortifying the evening had been, at least it had laid to rest any questions that idiot kobold had put in his head. He felt the fool, and was more than relieved to know she had been willing to forgive him his transgression. Raveyn was a remarkable woman, a fine WOMAN, and he was lucky enough to . . . to . . .

"Where are you going?" he snapped, eyeing Deekin angrily.

The kobold, who was halfway to the small cloth tent, paused and looked back, something white balled in one fist. "Deekin is just goings to give this back to Master," he said apologetically, raising the item, "she dropped it when she was beings coming back from the stream before beds, and he knows she needs it, and will miss it in the morning."

Squinting over the fire, Valen recognized the item as a tightly balled piece of white cloth. "What is it?"

"Oh," said Deekin off-handedly, "just Master's left breast."


	9. Rehearsal

"You don't understand." Despite his efforts at control, the words left Valen in a forceful snarl, and his hands were tightened into painful fists. "You couldn't possibly . . . what do you know about pain? About anger?"

When silence met him, he snorted and folded his arms. Finding it difficult to keep eye-contact, he settled for maintaining an air of vigilance as he stared out the nearby window. "I know you mean well . . . I do, truly. But my fiendish blood cannot be swept aside so easily -- !" He shook his head. "Maybe I am less of a man than a beast . . . and maybe, for whatever reason . . . that excites you. But I . . . I am not meant for some twisted sense of amusement!" He spat the last words out, lithe tail whipping though the air in the darkened room so quickly it nearly cracked audibly.

Silence.

Valen forced himself to let it drag out before, reluctantly, looking over his shoulder. A trickle of warmth seeped into his blue eyes at what he saw; it didn't thaw them completely, but it was a step towards it. " . . . I . . . I am sorry. Sometimes . . . " He paused, chewing his lower lip once in thought. " . . . at times, I find myself guilty of the same predjudices of which I accuse others. And you . . . you truly do care, don't you?" He turned around fully, a fine line of consternation appearing on his brow. "But why?" he said, a note of pleading in his voice.

He crossed the room in two long strides, kneeling and taking the smooth, pale hand all in one motion. "I don't know what you're asking of me, my lady." he said huskily, all traces of anger now gone from his voice, though confusion reigned in his cobalt eyes. "And I don't know wether or not I can give it to you. All I can do, is -- "

Someone hammered on the chamber door.

Making a sound of disgruntlement, Valen fell silent, jaw clenching. Maybe if he didn't answer --

"TIEFLING!" they bawled, the door actually buckling a little in it's frame. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, SHADOWBREATH! And I know you took it! Give it BACK!"

All but snarling, Valen's head snapped around. "I'm busy, Aarin! I'm afraid you'll have to come back later if you're that eager to get various parts of your anatomy handed to you in alphabetical order!" He allowed himself a slight smile. Yes. That should do it.

But it didn't.

"I NEED IT!" Aarin Gend all but howled angrily, as though Valen hadn't spoken. "I know you took my Real Leading Lady Doll, and I want it BACK!" Bits of grit sifted down from the ceiling and the door gave a distressed groan as he beat on it again. "You aren't the only one who needs to practice, hells damn your infernal hide!"

For an instant, Valen debated ignoring him. The door would undoubtably hold. But as the noise itself reached an infernal quality, he finally snatched the stiff mannequin out of the chair he had propped it in, golden curls obscuring one blue, painted, blandly smiling eye, and wrenched the door open. "Fine." he snarled, shoving it into the other man's arms. "Take it! Take the accursed thing! But I swear to you, Gend, I'll come looking for you if she ends up leaving me for some spoony bard with a higher persuasion check!"

Slamming the door in Gend's face offered only a minimal amount of satisfaction.

After a moment of seething, Valen stuck out his tongue cheekily and furiously at the closed door.

There. That was much better.


	10. Sleeping Beauty

"The threat is great." The Seer bowed her head momentarily, light from the sconces playing in the silver crown of her hair. When she raised her head, her gaze was dark and serious. "You have little choice in the matter, I know. Halaster's magics have taken that priviledge from you, and unjustly."

"We had hoped you would aid us willingly." Nathyrra said, echoing the Seer's words of moments before. Although she was attempting for a calm demeanor, her tension and worry was evident in the way she stood, the rigid lines of the muscles in her slender arms as she crossed them. "Now we only hope you will accept our assistance. There is a way we can both get what we want here."

Stroking his chin thoughtfully -- and jutting it for maximum heroic effect -- Dirk affected an air of cool detachment as he nodded sagely. Standing behind him, Deekin fiddled with his lute and tried his best not to fidgit. The Boss meant well, at least as far as he could see, and Deekin knew it was often best to let Dirk play out the scenarios in his head. He was often much more manageable after a maiden or two had dutifully popped a few buttons on her blouse and swooned at his feet.

"I'll do it." he said finally, placing his hands on his admirably narrow hips, oblivious to the elaborate rolling of the eyes the tiefling standing off to one side offered. "As much for my own good as for your own, my lady. But it will not be easy. My flunky and I will require supplies, and rest."

The Seer smiled, and a ripple of relief ran through the assembled drow, as subtle as the shivering of a leaf before a rainstorm. "You have our thanks, my friend. The stores of the city are open to you, and we will of course have a bed prepared for you to -- "

Dirk threw up one broad hand, silencing her. "No need, my dear. No need. You have a nice temple. This will do fine."

And, before she could respond, he dropped to the floor and immediately began snoring loudly.

There was a beat of silence before Commander Imloth stepped forward. "Should we . . . ?" he whispered, miming shaking the sleeping man.

Looking both bewildered and resigned, the Seer shook her head. "Let him . . . rest. And . . . try not to step in our saviour's drool. Somehow I don't think Lolth would appreciate it tracked all over the temple."

----------

Author's Note: A shortie this time, but I _do _call them Shorts for a reason. This actually worked better as a visual gag in my head; unfortunately, I'm no artist. But you can't tell me you haven't wondered about the resting system before. I did this so often, you'd have thought I'd have multi-classed to narcoleptic. I really need to write more things with Dirk. In the words of Jody of _Preacher _fame -- "He thinks he's a hero. And heroes is always fun."


	11. Mistress of Tactics

The minotaur's hooves were heavy in the silence of the tomb, and even though it was still out of sight, Lothlondiel felt certain it knew where they were, that it was _smelling _them out as certain as she might have followed the scent of dinner being cooked outdoors. She crouched against the wall with Linu, hands wrapped tightly around the long, slender staff she carried, and tried to ignore both the creeping feel of long-abandoned spiderwebs on the back of her neck from the neglected tombs, as well as the thunderous sound of her own heartbeat. She was frightened, yes, but at the same time, oddly exhilarated; she had spent most of her life studying the great strategies of Toril's greatest warriors, and she felt certain, _certain _she could fell the beast without even loosing a spell upon it. She thought of the victory she would have to tell Aarin of, when she and Linu returned the champions of the Green Griffon Inn's challenge, and grinned a little foolishly to herself as her cheeks flushed.

"Alright," she whispered, leaning as close as she could to the elven cleric, "I have a plan."

"Yes, dear?" Linu said, politely. She was wearing an expression she had come close to perfecting over the weeks spent at the younger elf's side -- the _Lothlondiel's-Being-Cute-So-Let's-Humour-Her-Look, _one that got a great deal of use. Lothlondiel was a fine young woman, a brilliant mind with a hardy grasp of magic, but she was still a little too overzealous about most things. Even Linu, for example, would have had the sense not to lift the lid and for a look straight in the eyes at the cockatrice they had retrieved in Neverwinter, no matter how much she had read about them in books.

Fortunately, the priests had been good about the whole matter when they had revived the sheepish young woman, and had kept the hysterical laughter to a minimum.

"This is what we're going to do." Lothlondiel said, eyes sparkling feverishly with the thought of it all. "I am going out to lure the creature on to the bridge."

"Of course you are."

"And then you," she went on, with a note of triumph, "will come charging out from behind here, smash into it from behind, and knock it over the edge!"

"Mmm." said Linu, reluctant to puncture the young elf's sense of victory. "I'm afraid that won't work, dear."

Lothlondiel looked blank for a moment, before she remembered Linu's less than graceful feet. Embarassed at her thoughtlessness, she quickly said, "Oh, oh of course! You may wait on the bridge, and when I have strengthened myself sufficiently with a spell, you will give the signal and lead the beast onto the bridge, and I shall -- "

"No," Linu said, still gently, "I mean, it won't work."

"Oh." said Lothlondiel, blankly. Then; "Why not?"

"It just . . . won't."

" . . . I see." Lothlondiel said after a long moment, although she didn't, really. After a beat, however, she brightened. "Okay. Okay, that's fine! I noticed those stone pillars over there in the doorway are weakened about the bases. I will lure the beast into the doorway, and then immediately destroy the bases of the pillar, thus toppling them onto the minotaur, and trapping the beast beneath them! Of course, it will mean we must take the long way 'round, but -- "

"Lothlondiel," Linu said, placing a slender hand on the girl's arm, "I'm afraid that really won't work either, dear."

Lothlondiel frowned, listening to the minotaur snort loudly in the next passageway, pebbles crunching beneath it's hooves. " . . . well, I realise there is a chance the pillars may miss it, but I still think -- "

"No. It just won't work, I'm afraid."

"Well, why not?" Lothlondiel demanded, lowering her voice quickly at an alarming grunt from the beast.

Linu shrugged, a little helplessly.

Lothlondiel sighed, slumping back against the wall. "Alright," she said, willing to concede that in this case Linu was the veteran warrior, and there might be some things books could not teach her, "which strategy would you like to use?"

"Well," Linu said, hesitantly, "I thought we might run up to it, you see. And then . . . and then I thought, I might hit it with my mace . . . and then you could, you know, hit it with your staff, or maybe some spell or another . . . and then it will likely hit one of us . . . and then it would be, well . . . my turn again." she finished with a bright smile, miming swinging the heavy mace she held.

For a long moment, Lothlondiel said nothing. Her face had gone curiously blank. She opened her mouth once to speak before shutting it quickly and shaking her head. "You want to . . . "

"Yes?" Linu prompted.

" . . . fine." Lothlondiel stood up with a heavy sigh, shoulders slumped, and Linu sprang to her feet beside her. As they headed off towards the next passage Lothlondiel said, hopefully, "You know, maybe I should get behind it, knock it on it's stomach with a spell, and you could strengthen your own limbs, and then throw one of these coffins on it, I expect they're dreadfully heavy -- "

"Ah ah ah!" Linu chastised with a gentle smile. "Stick to the strategy, dear."

" . . . right. The strategy. Of course. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise, dear."

Lothlondiel was beginning to think that when Aarin asked what she had been up to, she would tell him she had had a lovely rabbit stew at the Inn. Somehow, it seemed more exciting.

-----------

Author's Note: Hey, NWN: Greatest. Strategy. EVAH!


End file.
